


Lamb

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 03:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10608786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Aragorn keeps watch while Frodo recovers from his wound.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set during the few days in The Fellowship of the Ring (book 2, chapter 1) where Frodo’s sleeping in Rivendell.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Sometimes, it looks like he’s in pain—he’ll sweat in his sleep, squirm ever so slightly beneath the sheets, skin draining to a sickly, sallow yellow-white, red around his eyes. But then Sam will come and hold his hand, or Bilbo will recite poetry to his frozen form, and Frodo’s face will clear again. If all his loving friends slept at his side, he might heal faster for it.

But he needs space to _breathe_ , and Elrond’s ordered them all to sleep, save Aragorn, who’s used to a night’s watch. Aragorn keeps his distance in a chair by the balcony, letting half his mind drift in the far-off songs below, the rest of his attention always on Frodo Baggins.

Frodo makes a groaning noise, quiet but uncomfortable, and it draws Aragorn’s full gaze. Even paler in the moonlight, Frodo stirs. His eyes flutter beneath the lids, and Aragorn rises, strolling closer to take a careful seat on the bed. Frodo’s lashes draw half up, the blue irises below blown wide and bleary. Frodo rasps, dazed but hopeful, “Strider?”

“Good evening, little master,” Aragorn answers, though it’s far into the night. He lets one hand fall over Frodo’s, his thicker fingers curling around Frodo’s tiny palm. The smallest smile tugs at Frodo’s lips; he looks too weary to manage the full thing. 

Aragorn reaches across him for the glass of water that’s been waiting, and he brings it to Frodo’s lips. Frodo lifts his free hand but doesn’t quite connect—Aragorn has to release the other one to slip below Frodo’s head and guide him to the glass. He helps Frodo drink, slow and steady, then sets the half-full glass down again. Frodo reclines into his pillow, sighing, “Thank you.”

For a moment, Frodo is still, as though learning anew how to breathe, ragged and a tad uneven, but better than it’s been since the wound overtook him. After a time, he asks, “Where am I?” He doesn’t even try to look around, though he must be able to feel that he lies in a bed twice his size.

Aragorn replies, “You are safe in my home,” because he thinks it might be more comforting than simply ‘Rivendell,’ to which Frodo’s never been. Indeed, Frodo lets out a contented sigh, his eyes falling closed.

When he opens them again, they’re clearer, though still sleep-addled, and he sweeps them over Aragorn’s form. At Aragorn’s face, he murmurs, “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn chuckles. It isn’t a word he often hears of himself. His appeal has always been more rugged—handsome, perhaps, if anything at all. Frodo is the _beautiful_ one, soft and still pure, even in the wake of poison. Aragorn returns to Frodo’s hand, stroking it once to feel the warmth fill it again, and he adds, “I have had the good fortune of a bath and proper clothes, though do not grow used to it—I am a Ranger more than a resident, these days.”

Frodo makes a noise as though he wants to laugh but doesn’t have the strength. Watching Aragorn with a touching air of fondness, he mumbles, “I did want to trust you.”

“And you do, now that I am beautiful?” Aragorn teases. It makes Frodo’s smile grow properly. 

But then his eyes fall closed again, and he tiredly slurs, “If I just rest a moment... will you keep me safe...?” His hand is already lax in Aragorn’s, the rest of him halfway there.

Aragorn promises, “I will keep you safe as long as I am able.” He hopes that extends far beyond this bed, though it would be better still if Frodo had no need of protection at all.

Frodo releases a happy sigh. He’s swiftly asleep again, more peaceful than he seemed before.

Aragorn places a tender kiss to Frodo’s forehead, wishes aloud, “Sweet dreams, dear Frodo,” and returns to his chair and watch.


End file.
